Holy Dark
by Lady Jaida
Summary: The world, and Saitou Hajime, both work in sometimes incomprehensible ways. Looking up to be a rather epic Rurouni Kenshin fanfiction, mainly revolving around the pairing of Saitou/Sanosuke, but shall also indulge in Shin Sen Gumi goodness. Much yaoi. R
1. 1

First attempt at Saitou/Sanosuke fic; because I can't resist the pull, the urge, the desire. It's in my soul. Well, there you have it. More to come. Do read, and definitely review.

**Holy Dark**

1.

Of all the things he hated, Sagara Sanosuke hated waking up in the morning almost most of all. 

His place was shit; there were no two ways about it. His bed was shit and the ceiling was patched up but it was still shit. Hell, even the fucking roaches were shit, and when it got to the point where you had sub-par roaches you knew you'd hit rock bottom. Well, the good thing about rock bottom was that there was nowhere to go but up from where you were. The only problem was, Sanosuke couldn't very well go anywhere at the moment, up or down, because his head hurt so goddamn bad, like someone was sitting between his ears and smashing around wherever he could with a real big hammer. 

With a grunt and a groan, the man pushed himself up, trying to ignore the way the world twitched and spun all around him, beneath him, above him. He cursed under his breath, low and rough. The tatami mat beneath him was pleasantly grounding, and he let his hands rest there, against the comfort and solidity of the floor. If he could just remember that there _was_ floor beneath him, then maybe he could get up enough presence of mind to get over to the dojo and hit Jou-chan up for some tea.

_Not any of Jou-chan's tea_, he told himself. Maybe, if he was lucky, Megumi would be visiting, and he'd get something he'd be able to swallow without spitting out in disgust right afterwards. The last thing a guy needed when his head was splitting in half after a long night filled with just the right amount – which was too much, in anyone else's book – of sake, was some of Jou-chan's tea. She always managed to be able to screw up even boiled water and it could damn near kill you on the best of days. 

His lower back hurt. Probably from whatever position he'd fallen asleep in, or maybe from the way he was sitting now, but it was a dull, throbbing ache that reminded him of old wounds. Absently, with a motion that had become a habit by this point, he reached up to his right shoulder, rubbed the deadened, mangled flesh that twisted and puckered into paleness. It felt older than it was, as if it had been with him since birth. He'd roll over in the night and sudden pain, sudden memory of pain, would flare through him, startling him awake. He'd find himself on his right side, his shoulder pressed beneath him and all he'd remember between his ears: the sound of metal sheared in half, the feel of metal in his flesh, the feel of one callused palm grabbing the torn metal and pushing it through the other side of his shoulder, so hard that he found the floor had come up to meet him. So it felt like, anyway, everything that was solid connecting, bam, with his shoulderblades. Later, he'd learned the extent to what a disgrace the wound itself was, Saitou Hajime's calling card, left as a torn, bloody wound in Sagara Sanosuke's shoulder because that's all he was good for, anyway, like some sort of little kid who'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sano frowned to himself. The glint of those gold eyes like steel; they would have been that color in the darkness, even, as if they borrowed their brightness from the moon. Those eyes knew how to smile like Kenshin's eyes knew how to smile, masked and fake. Those eyes probably only knew how to smile that way, like it was something you hid behind because it was easier to catch prey that didn't know you were coming. Saitou the wolf and Kenshin the hawk, Sano thought to himself, and then realized the hangover was making him too fucking poetic for his own good. 

It pissed him off, incensed his belly when he thought about it. Made him want to punch something. Well, fuck, he knew what it was he wanted to punch but damned if he was ever going to land a fist square in that smug, narrow face, gold eyes like two chips of metal slanted and watching, bemused. Didn't mean he wouldn't try next chance he got. There was some amount of catharsis in giving enough of a damn to go for it; Hajime'd kick his ass because Hajime was that damn superior about everything, but one of these days Sano was gonna pull one over on the bastard, and then they'd see who got to smile like they were real hot shit. 

He could win _one_ battle, couldn't he – even if there was no chance in Hell that he was going to win the war.

~*~

The day wasn't bright. It was going to rain later on, that much was clear, from the way the clouds growled above in the sky, bunching together with gray intent. It was better that the sun wasn't out in full noonday force: such was the last thing Sano needed as another assault on his poor head. The world wasn't made for a man who'd been out drinking late the night before, that much was clear. If it was loud at the dojo – if Kaoru and Yahiko were intent on acting like two bratty children and Kenshin was intent on letting it happen because it let him forget or let him be distracted or whatever – then Sano didn't know how much it was worth it. Hell, he could get tea at the Akabeko for cheaper. Well, if they were still serving him at the Akabeko; but his tab had gotten a little unwieldy as of late and it was probably a bad idea to go back without having something to pay Tae-san with, if only as a peace offering. Really, it just got embarrassing after a while. And the last thing Sano needed was to die at the hands of one pissed off waitress brandishing some kitchen implement as her weapon. Sure, he could laugh in the face of danger, but when Tae-san's left eye got a little twitchy and she started to roll up her sleeves, it was definitely time to turn and walk as quickly as you could in the opposite direction. 

The skies let out their protest, their warning. 

"Ch'," Sano muttered, well aware that he was talking to himself, but it was going to rain and Isoon/I; he didn't have to be a fucking Battousai or a fucking ex member of the Shin Sen Gumi to figure that out all on his lonesome. There was some little rhyme playing in his head – don't run under a tree – but the clouds had darkened to an angry, bruised gray, the clouds rolling and pregnant, ready to unburden themselves. The road beneath him breathed out a sigh of dry dust at the touch of his feet. It was going to be a quick downpour; the smell of rain in the air was sudden and fierce, but it would be over, spent, as quickly as it had come. 

If there was one thing Sano didn't need it was to get rained on; he saw the change in the weather as a personal affront, but who wouldn't? Sourly, he ducked himself off the road, moved to rest up against the trunk of a tree whose branches and thick foliage provided ample cover. Sano folded his arms over his chest, and the tension in the air snapped. The sound of the rain came first: a delicate dance upon the leaves above his head, before it got serious and darkness flooded the afternoon, wetness making for a thick sheet of rain pounding down for as far as the eye wished to see. 

Sagara Sanosuke shoved his hands in his pockets and _scowled_, up at the network of branches above him. The air was thick with humidity. Maybe, when he got older, the scar on his shoulder would ache with the coming of rain, would remind him of past battles and youth. He snorted at the very idea – why he was thinking like he was already an old man was beyond him. The rain got to him. Headaches got to him. 

His thumb moved over the twisted flesh at his shoulder and he frowned. Sure, he had scars, a hell of a lot of 'em. His hands, for one thing, were a mess of once-broken knuckles, of the same flesh torn time and time again. By far, this was the biggest, though, the sort of thing that stood out when you were naked. There hadn't been too many girls lately but when there were, they asked, touched it, and it made Sano uncomfortable, like two gold eyes were watching him even in private, even in the dark of night. It was something Sano couldn't fathom and it pissed him off all the more, though there was nothing he could do to shake the feeling. 

The skin around the scar was sensitive; the scar itself felt nothing at all. Could've put another one of Mibu's Wolf's swords right through it and Sano got the feeling that it wouldn't be able to register the sensation as more than a dull throb, in comparison to the intensity of the first time Sano's flesh had ever tasted the power of the man behind that blade. 

In front of him, the rain stirred into the wet air; the trees, the road, made gray by the fall of water. Everything smelled like rain, unpleasant unless you were in the mood for it, or had an umbrella. 

It was the smell of smoke that filtered into his senses next, smoke lingering on the humidity from somewhere behind him. Then came the sudden aching in his shoulder, so that he dropped a startled hand from the scar to his side. The ache was acute, a throbbing between the joints and all throughout the undamaged muscle, the sort of pain he didn't get from the rain, but only got from a sixth, physical sense, that always told him one thing, one thing only.

"Ahou ga," the deep voice murmured, as low and as smooth as the cigarette smoke that also came from the same parted lips. "Didn't anyone tell you to keep out from under trees when it's raining?" Gloved fingers flicked a sudden sparkle of ash to the ground and Sano found himself staring down as the brightness flickered and then disappeared, muscles tensing instinctively. 

"Don't see what fuckin' business it is of yours," Sano snarled, turning. Saitou had the upper hand, of course, because Saitou was just fractionally taller and Saitou had come up behind Sano, which forced the younger man to make the first move. Uneven ground; always, Saitou forced them to be on uneven ground. Sano was younger and Saitou damn made sure it was obvious, and always with a subtlety that Sano had never bothered and never would bother to learn. 

"I should think Battousai-san would be put out if his stray met an unfortunate end in the woods," Saitou replied easily. He breathed smoke out his nose, nostrils flaring just slightly as he exhaled.

"Shouldn't you make some fuckin' noise when you move, or somethin'?" Sano demanded. The corners of Saitou Hajime's mouth lifted up, tugged by some unseen amusement that was directed at the younger man. Naturally, it was scornful, but that much was the only obvious part of Saitou's expression. The rest was as veiled as the smoke that curled from the cigarette held neatly between fore- and index-finger. Like fire didn't mean anything to Mibu's Wolf – like he conquered the things that tried to conquer him, and wasn't that the truth?

_Fire was in the air. It was a fitting ending, wasn't it; the man once burned by fire engulfed by it at last, though this time it devoured him from the inside. It seemed as if it had taken years to come to this point, like traveling the long, weary edge of a sword's blade and finally coming to the tip – learning, suddenly, there was no way to turn, nothing to do but jump. 'Back' simply wasn't a direction in this place: it was like limbo, indecision, heat making the air waver, so that sweat prickled Sano's forehead._

_The flames licked at the air hungrily, some unnamed beast's tongue flicking in and out, grown hungrier the more it gorged itself. _

_It made you wonder. They'd been through so much, too much; now, Kenshin, slumped over like some doll that'd been thrown against the wall too many times, Sano hurting so bad, like Anji'd been practicing his technique all those years on bhim/b, and Saitou Hajime was—_

"The point is _not_ to make a sound, ahou," Saitou said easily, smoothly. Cigarette finished, he flicked it to the ground, and crushed it out beneath the heel of his boot. His hair was damp, Sano noted, from the rain, wet where it fell into his eyes. So Mibu's Wolf hadn't known or thought to bring an umbrella. Somehow, the idea comforted him. There was at least some part of nature that Saitou Hajime didn't have complete control over. You could only anticipate so many moves.

"Yeah? Get yourself into trouble some day, doin' sneaky shit like that." 

"You're trying to teach me life lessons?" Saitou tilted his head to the side. "You've a lot to learn."

"Yeah. Why don't we start with you tellin' me what you're doin' here in the first place?"  Sanosuke shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes narrowing. Obscurely, he realized the deep brown color of his eyes wasn't as suited for anger or intimidation as the gold of Saitou Hajime's slitted pupils, but it didn't mean he couldn't try. Saitou watched his hands clench into fists with very little interest, though the scarred skin was stretched taut over the knuckles and the amount of determined futility in the motion was something to be considered. No; ever since the Battousai's puppy had proven himself to be a scrappy sort of mongrel, learning Anji's technique, he'd been at least a creature to consider as worthy of thought. The temper was what made him intriguing; the temper was also what made him foolish.

"Assuming I would tell you?" Saitou lifted one slim brow. The furrow between his eyes, above the bridge of his nose, smoothed for a moment with the expression. The rain had not lessened and the humidity in the air was making things uncomfortable, cold but too thick to be anything other than clammy. "It is an unpleasant day, ahou; and while I cannot do anything about the weather, you are a different matter." Just as simple as that; like flicking ash from the cigarette, or brushing his hair out of his eyes, Saitou Hajime passed off Sano's presence as annoying but minimally so. That was what Sano hated the most: the condescension. Anger he could've tolerated. A certain amount of nastiness would have been just fine. But that superiority got Sano's blood boiling like nothing else could.

And Saitou knew it – most infuriatingly of all.

_Saitou Hajime was gone. It wasn't possible. Saitou Hajime was the best – no, not the best, then, because Sano couldn't think that without abandoning that oddly childish yet impossibly dedicated trust he'd put in Kenshin's strength and abilities. But Saitou Hajime was at least the second best, the lean line of that lanky body, the determined movements, the way he'd come at Sano like a sudden flash of metal and light, gold and blue and black. The way he'd marked Sano, because he'd marked him whether either of the two would ever admit it verbally. His scar hurt – that he could admit. The air smelled and tasted like smoke, but not small-grade smoke, smoke that came from twisting, charred metal and so much wood, being swallowed up by the raging fire._

_It was a sight to behold, impressive, terrible. Devastating. So much talent lost, so much work destroyed: whether it was man-made or simply man, there was a pall of smoke hanging in the air, mourning the great loss._

_Saitou Hajime was burned with the rest of it, like so much ash, now on the wind – now gone._

"You here for Kenshin?" Sano persevered. If only he could just get one good swing in – maybe break the guy's nose, or knock that smug smile right off his damn face. Both of them knew it wouldn't happen. Sano didn't even swing the punch – he wasn't that stupid. Not here. Not now. Not with the wetness mixing up his emotions, not with the throbbing of his shoulder. And, soon enough, impulse would destroy his hands, leave them as mangled and useless as Saitou had left his shoulder, and then were would he be?

"Well, I'm certainly not around to see you." Saitou's voice was clipped. He lit another cigarette like so: first the cigarette was placed between his lips, then the matchbox removed from his pocket, one match struck against it, his cupped hands around the flame to nurse it into brightness. The cigarette lit, he flicked the match to the ground; the flame was out by the time it hit the dirt. Sano pulled his eyes away. 

"Ch'," he muttered, to no one in particular.

"Something the matter, ahou?" 

"That shit fuckin' smells," Sano snapped back, defensive.

And how the guy could stand the smell of smoke after—

(It was impossible to have survived that blaze, Kenshin said afterwards, when he'd healed enough to sit up and eat Jou-chan's cooking like a real trooper, but something in the fathomless depths of the Battousai's purple eyes had said: but Saitou Hajime would. Saitou Hajime was a stubborn bastard; both Kenshin and Sanosuke knew as much from experience. Kenshin probably knew the extent of just how stubborn Mibu's Wolf was better than Sano did, but hell, even a blind dog could smell the stubbornness on Saitou Hajime from miles away.)

"I'll have you know, I'm here as Fujita Gorou," Saitou continued, ignoring Sano's comment as if it were too rude to be acknowledged, even tempting fate and Sanosuke's temper enough to blow a circle of smoke in the younger man's direction. "I was in the neighborhood. It's only polite to stop by, to pay a visit." 

"To let Kenshin in on what's happenin' outside of the dojo. To throw him some hint so he'll have no choice but to go off and do your dirty work for you, 'cause you're not interested in savin' the whole damn world, like he is."

"Hn." Saitou smiled, his eyes becoming those false crescents of harmless, glassy cheer. He only ever got that look when he was on the hunt, though he seemed complacent enough, smoking with an ease Sano only ever wished he could have. "Perhaps. Are you going to stop me?"

"Mattaku." The rain was letting up; the sun, starting to press its way through the clouds, which had already reluctantly begun to disperse. The day was getting just a little brighter. "I was just goin' the same way, that's all." And damned if Saitou Hajime was going to change what path he was taking, even if he was one fuck of a traveling companion.

"Then, do you think you can behave yourself?"

"Temee." A scowl played over Sano's features, flickered petulantly in the depths of his eyes. 

"I thought not. Ahou." Saitou dropped the second cigarette to the ground, a casual motion, and stubbed it out with the same movement he'd used for the first. Saitou was deliberate in such ways; with his Gatotsu, with his insults, with his cigarettes, apparently. Always the same thing, a repetitive sort of stubbornness that, again, was far subtler than other, more mainstream compulsions. 

It was only when Sano registered the straight, blue line of Saitou's back in front of him that he realized the rain had turned to a weakened drizzle, and Mibu's Wolf was leaving him behind. A curse tucked underneath his breath, almost hiding against his chin, he shoved his hands once more into his pockets and moved off after the taller man. He knew one thing: he wasn't going to get left behind. 

Not again.


	2. 2

Dedicating this fic as of yet to Kylandra, who has been the source of all information and inspiration in this quest to do what I have always wanted to do, ever since I saw Rurouni Kenshin in all its long-arc glory. Continue to read and please, please, continue to review!

**Holy Dark **

2.

_An unpleasant night, a truly unpleasant night. Rain could wet you to the bone on a night like this, chill you down to your blood. Flesh clung to muscle in pale desperation, the same way fabric clung to flesh, soaked through in the chill of the dark night. Lights flickered on in windows, or flickered out. The moon did not struggle against the clouds that obscured it in the darkness, but resigned, accepting the simplicity of its stormy fate. For one night, the moon acquiesced to the rain and the stormclouds, for the moon knew that it would soon return, though this storm would blow over as quickly as it had come. The moon did not worry itself, impassive as ever, always a part of the night, over such fleeting things. _

_Saitou Hajime, Captain of the Shin Sen Gumi's Third Troop, smiled a certain smile to himself and resigned himself, too, like the moon, to the wetness. The moon and he knew that the weather did not attack them personally; rather, it was simply nature, and if one spent one's entire life howling at nature's quirks or patterns, then one would never be satisfied with the road they traveled. _

_"Excuse me." The voice was a lilt of smooth calm and pleasant civility, of real smiles, good humor even in the black of shivering night. "Was a joke told? I did not hear the punchline." Saitou's gold eyes never saw such smiles as graced Okita Souji's. The Captain of the Shin Sen Gumi's First Troop smiled in a way far more pleasant to the average man - or woman, certainly - as if he were listening to the punchlines the world had to offer, as if he were enjoying them tremendously. Saitou Hajime was different: he was making the jokes, or he was a part of them, and the quirk to his lips, minimal, barely there, registered a half-scorn, a half-stubbornness, and an ultimate bemusement. _

_"You know there ain't no two ways about it." Harada Sanosuke had this gruff gravel to his voice that challenged without waiting to be challenged, a lack of seriousness as he ruffled at the assault offered by the rainy night. "He's smilin' an' we're not gonna know why. Does it even matter?" The Captain of the Tenth Troop toned himself down when he was around Okita - Okita demanded a certain amount of respect, or decorum, or gentleness, that Harada only gave to him and to women - though he didn't do it when he was just around Saitou. Then, the man was a plethora of curses and coarse euphemisms and, just as Saitou was amused by the rainy night, Saitou was amused by him. Harada's saving grace, so to speak, was that he was a good fighter, a damnably good fighter, though he had the tendency to be a real asshole if he didn't put his mind to acting otherwise. "Just wanna get inside, shit, get warmed up, if y'know what I mean." They knew what he meant. Everyone and their uncle and their uncle's old cat would have known what he meant, just by looking at that I'm-gonna-get-laid sparkle to his eyes. Even in the wet and the darkness, you couldn't keep Harada Sanosuke down; not for long enough to shut him up, in any case._

_"Hn," Saitou said, arms folded over his chest. The three of them made a steady, pleasant rhythm against the city street when they walked together, Okita with the grace of a young boy and Harada with the speed of an alley cat and Saitou with the steady prowl of a practiced wolf. The Shin Sen Gumi was, in Saitou's opinion, a sort of spider's web, which had perhaps caught a grasshopper, a fly and a butterfly. They were all of them men, but the differences between them were unmapped and innumerable. _

_"You gonna take your time, or what?" Harada muttered, indignant. He was always rushing into things, hurrying towards or maybe for something, as if he thought time were a phenomenon that could be conquered, overcome by a faster step. It was in its own way endearing - Okita found it to be so - while women thought his blustering and bravado were something to blush at, be impressed by. Saitou did not find it endearing, nor was he easily overcome by all Harada's protestations of a stronger constitution. The man was pleasant to look at but when you came down to it, he was soft; whether improper upbringing or a certain, basic quirk of his nature was to blame, it unquestionably didn't matter. Okita coughed - had a habit of breaking Saitou out of his thoughts or out of a sudden battle haze, even with the slightest of sounds or movements - and Saitou looked over to the smaller man, wondering at the purposefulness of it._

_"Excuse me," he said. Okita began most sentences that way. Excuse me for disturbing your rest. Excuse me for being the bearer of such bad news. Excuse me for killing you. Excuse me for putting my lips on yours. Here: excuse me for coughing. The curve of his cheek was pale like the curve of the moon, and it caught the light that flickered on in a nearby window. It was wet, with the rain. _

_"Iie," Saitou replied, ducking his head in formality they indulged in only because neither of them broke the simple structure for any reason, no matter how familiar they had become. Harada was cut from different cloth; his rudeness could be considered their form of courtesy, only spun about one hundred eighty degrees on whatever axis of chivalry they had established. "Do not mention it." And Saitou moved just a little faster, enough for Harada to be satisfied, enough for the warmth and comfort of hot tea and a soft bed to be in sight for all of them. Let Harada think what he wanted to think. Saitou Hajime could smell some ill portent on the wind, like the coming of a great illness. It was with the same sense that he could smell a battle the night before it began, instincts honed and sharpened, much the same way swordsmiths honed and sharpened their finest blades. _

_"Now that's more **like** it," Harada said, grinning fox-like, disrupting the stillness. It was necessary always to have Harada's loud voice sounding out like a trumpet of goodwill in the darkness; shadows did not come so easily, then, to the color of Okita's warm eyes. _

~*~

Megumi may have had a healer's touch but half the time she did _not_ have a gentle touch. Well, not when she'd pulled Sagara Sanosuke's bandana off with one slim, graceful hand, white as the day she'd been born, and, with that same delicate hand, grabbed the back of Sano's head, shoving him face first into a bucket of freezing cold water which, adding insult to more insult, smelled distinctly of old laundry and soap.

Spluttering, near choking, Sano struggled against the hold and finally, when he thought he'd drown this way - what an undignified end it was - she let him go. Wet, angry, shaking his head and hair like a dog shook water from its fur, Sano fell backwards without any grace at all to the landing, onto the still-wet grass beneath him. 

"What the fuck," he managed, when all the water had come out of his nose and his mouth, "was that for, you goddamn bitch?" Megumi smiled a little to herself, rolling down her sleeves demurely. As if, Sano mused to himself, she wasn't one crazy, homicidal woman who'd just shoved his head in a bucket when he'd come to her and asked her - as polite as he ever got, too! - for a cup of tea.

"It's good for hangovers," she said easily, the corners of her eyes and mouth smiling. Of course, she would take some sadistic pleasure out of the decided inelegance of the way Sano was sprawled, hair falling, sopping, over into his eyes. She was just that kind of a crazy bitch, too. But in front of Saitou Hajime? That sort of abuse wasn't to be taken, not without a string of curses a mile long and a look in Sano's eyes that might have stunned your average plow horse by sheer force of its fury.

"And so does a goddamn cup of tea!" Sano protested, scowling, though he failed to look intimidating enough for either Takani Megumi or Saitou Hajime to take much actual notice. Megumi knew enough to keep her back to Sano - the least threatening of the two men.

"Ignoring the ahou," Saitou said easily, on some countless cigarette; he didn't look at ease unless he was smoking one, the very movements smoking entailed engrained, like his gatotsu, into the line of his back. "I can assume Battousai-san is not at home?"

"Ken-san went out this morning," Megumi answered thoughtfully, tucking hair behind her ear. "He did not say he would be gone for long. No doubt he tired of the poor quality of cooking he can get here at the dojo and allowed himself to be dragged to the Akabeko?" She made a whistling sound of condescension between pursed lips, and shrugged. "If you wish to wait for him, neither I nor this idiot can stop you." Saitou looked at the woman for a long moment, taking in her motives with his head just slightly inclined to the left. At last, he smiled; not Fujita Gorou's cheerful expression, not Mibu's Wolf's narrow-eyed triumph, but a satisfied look, the sort he wore when he had gotten what he wanted from someone with nominal efforts. "I take it you're going to wait?" Megumi pressed, standing. She had learned long ago not to watch these men too closely; their eyes held a snake-like hypnosis that made it hard to judge the correct heat in the air, the proper tone of one's voice, the actual meaning of their words. 

"Aa." Saitou bobbed his head, once, that unaffected smile held to his lips in much the same way the cigarette was held between them; as if it were an outside force, something foreign to, and yet an intrinsic, important part of, that narrow face. Megumi watched those slitted eyes, wondering at them, for a fraction of a second, before she, too, smiled, a placating expression, pleasant enough unless you knew Takani Megumi, and then you realized how damn near the point of raging, crazy bitch she was about to get. Even from the ground, even with water in his eyes, Sano could tell she didn't like Saitou for a second and it gave him some scornful pleasure, even though he knew Saitou wouldn't give so much as a second thought to some pretty doctor's aversion to him. "Thank you, sensei, for all your help." Simply, Saitou dropped the butt of his cigarette - ash in the air, the smell of ash in the air suddenly poignant and sharp - and he turned on his heel with clipped motions. "I think I shall wait inside the dojo. Be careful with the mutt. Perhaps he shall catch cold, mm?" Of all things, Sano realized as Saitou moved towards the entrance of the dojo, to sit inside, to wait like some dangerous wildcat perched above its prey at a mountain pass, Saitou Hajime was real damn good at walking away and leaving people behind him.

"Ch'," Sano snapped at Megumi, because he couldn't do anything else, needed a handy way to let out his anger and embarrassment, also, "the hell'd you do that for?"

"Stick your head in Ken-san's laundry bucket, or let him go inside and wait for Ken-san's return?" Megumi lifted one slim, challenging brow. Sano caught himself before he started to growl at her. Even if she was a bitch, there were some things you couldn't do, and one of those things was growl at a lady.

"Both," Sano snapped back at her, picking the red strip of fabric up from the ground and tying his hair back out of his face with it. It took two tries - his hands were shaking just enough with indignant anger to make the task more difficult than perhaps it should have been.

"You know as well as I do," Megumi replied easily, "neither of us could have stopped him. He wanted to wait. He is waiting." Megumi turned, looking down at, on, Sanosuke, as the tall man brushed dirt and grass stains off the backs of his thighs. "As for the former," she answered, the sober tone of her voice gone, replaced with superiority and some amount of good cheer, "I did _that_ because I _could_." A little laugh followed the statement, and Sano snorted. Hell, he told himself, at least he knew one thing better than she did, not as well as: neither of them could have stopped Saitou Hajime, and that was the damn truth. At least, Sano thought to himself, not smug but close to it, he'd gotten that one from experience, whereas Megumi was simply drawing upon the experiences of others.

_"Good day." The sound of a box placed on the ground, the simple movement of loose-fitting fabric against skin, touched by the wind. It was a tall man, with a narrow face, a lanky build, lines in his expression that suggested he was not old but had lived to see many harsh times. His cheekbones were prominent in his unusual face, and his eyes were curved up into pleasant crescents, but he smelled - and Sanosuke had his best sense of smell when his stomach was most empty - like metal and cigarette smoke and places Sano had never seen, only heard about from Kenshin's eyes. Immediately Sano didn't like the man, though he was dressed like a doctor, and the black hair that fell forward into his eyes belied his nature, softening the yet softened expression on his face. _

_"Who are you?" Sure, Sano didn't say it with any grace or with any courteousness but why the hell should he? He smelled like maybe Kenshin would have, if Kenshin hadn't really softened the lines of his face into something admittedly young, childish, gentle because he wanted so badly to have that sort of nature, or because he wanted so badly to deny his own through the employment of such a radically different one. No; the softened lines of this man's harshly angled face were softened because he wanted a mask to obscure his true intent, the true reason for why he was here. Nothing about this face said it was the sort of face that would ever deny its own nature: the one given to it by birth._

_"Fujita Gorou," the man was saying, "to moushimasu." He had a low voice, smooth and easy, and though he smelled of smoke there was no roughness to his tone as most smokers had. Sano frowned. The guy was a liar, plain and simple. Even that name didn't taste right. "Hajimemashite."_

"Sanosuke." Megumi's voice was steely, like the blade of a knife. Sano turned, blinked over at her. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, heralding midafternoon; the clouds had long since cleared away, and its bright heat had already begun to dry Sano's hair and shoulders. "Are you thinking about him?" With another, clipped snort Sano found he'd shrugged, looking away as he sipped his cup of tea. Hell, he thought to himself, at least he'd got it in the end. But Megumi's question warranted no answers, no answers at all. When Kenshin returned, the tension in the air would break. Saitou was a polite man, and there was no desire in his body language, or in his eyes. Saitou Hajime had not come to the dojo to fight.

There were worse things than fighting, though. 

_The thing you noticed first about this so-called 'Fujita Gorou' was his eyes. They were narrow things, like little slants of gold in his long face, and his brows slashed down over them, as if his every feature had been carved by quick, skilled thrusts of a master's blade. Sano looked to one side, smirking a little. The guy was like some exaggeration of himself, as if he'd lived so long knowing who he was that there was no changing his set facial expressions now. (Later, Sano would learn enough about the guy to know this first impression had been the only one he'd gotten that was wrong.) At least he was good at lying, an expert, you could call him, but he seemed like the sort of guy who knew he was an expert at most things. It looked as if he was going to go on about his medicine bullshit forever and Sano was hungry, didn't have the time or the patience for it. Impulsively, he opened his mouth, said the first incendiary thing that he could think of._

_"You have real small eyes," he muttered, smirking a little, his whole body relaxing. It surprised him, then, when the taller man in front of him laughed, a low, amused chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Sano's neck prickle and a small tickle of wonder race down his spine. The hell was up with this Fujita Gorou, anyway, and why the fuck was he here?_

_"I have been this way since birth," the dark-haired man returned simply, as if Sano couldn't break his 'good cheer' even if he went at it with a rock in each hand. Well, that was where this sonovabitch was wrong, Sanosuke told himself. You didn't underestimate Sagara Sanosuke and get away with it. Impulse took over - because impulse always took over - and Sano reached out, grabbing the 'doctor's' right wrist and twisting it so that his hand was facing palm up. Surprise did not register in the Fujita's eyes, nor did annoyance, but Sano felt confident he'd got the man where he wanted him, didn't give a damn what Fujita's eyes did or didn't express._

_"Sou kai? Ja, I don't think these calluses from practicin' Kendo are from birth, though." The guy had long, slim hands, but there was power in his fingers and the calluses gave them a dangerous look, as if they knew damn well how to kill. Well, Sagara Sanosuke wasn't intimidated, not by the calluses on some guy's hands, not by some guy's eyes that looked more like metal than anything else. Then, the man, with maddening calm and disinterested amusement, began to smile._

_"You are perceptive, Sagara Sanosuke," he said, pulling his hand free. "So Battousai-san is out. Ah well. In that case, I shall have to leave him a surprise."_

_Brown eyes met a glint of gold; the first time Fujita Gorou had opened his eyes all the way. Dark brows did not knit down over those slits-for-eyes, but the tension in the air changed. Sano felt something knot within his stomach and the only way to combat it was with anger; but there it was, a lingering tension, unnamed and unnatural, like anticipation for the fight he knew was to come or hunger because he hadn't eaten since the day before at breakfast. No; but it wasn't just his body and it wasn't just his chest. There was something else, like some teeth had just been sunk into the flesh of his belly, like something was trying to eat his stomach from the inside. Sagara Sanosuke tensed, the muscles in all of him tensed, and he saw the corner of Fujita Gorou's mouth twitch up - like he knew the ending to some joke Sano hadn't even been told the beginning of, yet. _

_"You intended to fight from the beginnin'," Sano snapped, because something had to be said, and Fujita looked as if he might actually laugh. _

_Oh, the man's eyes said, swift and fleeting even in their intensity of spirit, Sagara Sanosuke, you have no idea._


	3. 3

Chapter Three. By all that is holy, tell me what you think -- this is my first Saitou/Sano fic, and I am saddened by its lack of reviews. I know you probably won't review anyway, but please, if you've read it and enjoyed it, think about perhaps dropping a note to say you did? Thanks.   
****

Holy Dark

3. 

Of all things, Himura Kenshin was not a man who made much conversation, but perhaps that was what Saitou had come for: the wisdom in such silence. The tea was foul, too hot at first and too cold now and with too little time spent on the brewing of it, so it was weak and unimpressive. There was nothing to do but drink it, however, which Saitou did with stoic civility, as Himura did as well, though the Battousai had far better reasons to put up with it. That he lived with this girl, in this place, surrounded by the childishness of inexperience, seemed to suggest he had no pride left, or perhaps more than enough. In the way the Battousai now sat, with his back straight and his muscles taut even in supposed relaxation, Saitou knew it was the latter, though it seemed to be a microcosm of what Japan had become in the past fifteen years. Himura Battousai to Himura Kenshin; a killer with fangs so sharp and eyes so keen that they mirrored death to a man bent with the desire for proper atonement, shunning himself through the medium of his past.

Saitou's lips curled slightly, not a sneer, perhaps a moment of regret. They would have inevitably killed each other if they had not changed with the passing of time. Saitou was a lean thing now, not weary but jaded, and Himura had turned so long ago upon the path of the Rurouni that when he was not fighting only his features were reminiscent of who he once was. Their reunion would have meant both their deaths had it not been for the timely interruption, too matched, too much each other's opposites that need demanded they cancel themselves out. Like so much fire, and like so much ice, one might say, leaving only tepid water as a marker behind in a now tepid Japan. 

Saitou knew and the Battousai knew that they would not fight again. In some ways the knowledge was a disappointment, to the wolf of Saitou's nature that refused such a truth, but they had all sheathed their swords in one way or another. Life and death were not decided by the blade or by the skill of the swordsman behind the blade, not any longer. This was, as women said with slight, demure smiles, a peaceful time. When Saitou moved in uniform through the busy streets he could feel the wonder that rippled on either side of him at his weaponry. Why, the people wondered, in a time of guns and of canons, of burgeoning technology, would a man choose a sword over a weapon far easier to master, far more advanced? If it were possible to kill all such people in the world and sit down afterwards to a nice bowl of soba, Saitou would have slit each and every one of their throats, to prove to them their own idiocy. Unfortunately, one could not murder every fool in the world, and still have time to breathe, much less indulge in a meal or two.   
  
"Have you come only to visit, then?" It was Himura who first broke the silence, the Battousai's voice thick but less low than his age might have warranted. And it smiled, which Saitou recognized now but had yet to grow accustomed to. The past was a fierce beast, one that neither man could sever ties from; though Himura had tried far more overtly to do so, whereas Saitou Hajime had let the times change around him, had let his habits fit into, not change with, the times.

"Perhaps," Saitou replied. "I did not come for the tea. Whatever you see in your Kamiya girl, it is certainly not her prowess in the kitchen." It was an insult Himura would have heard before, the sort of 'good-nature' behind it not friendly, not companionable, but hardly meant for confrontation. Kenshin's eyes smiled just slightly at it, something he was by now accustomed to, and certainly in ruder terms than Saitou would ever dream of employing. If Okita Souji had managed in those long, bloody years to teach Mibu's Wolf anything at all, it was the necessity of a politeness policy, perhaps a stricter code than adhering to one's own stance in battle. It might have explained, certainly, some of Saitou Hajime's stubbornness. 

"Sou de gozaru." It was the Battousai's particular, affected vocal mannerisms that made the hairs on the back of Saitou's neck stand on end the most, as if the redhead had taken courses in his long years of solitary travel: how to play the fool. Certainly, each time Himura adopted the Rurouni's method of dialogue, anyone who did not know the level to which such a fighter was abasing himself might assume he really was as much of a fool as perhaps he would have liked to be. 

"And I believe it was not for the conversation you offer, Battousai-san." Saitou took another, tentative sip of the Kamiya girl's tea and then set his cup down, hoping that half was enough torture he could put his tongue through in order to seem just polite enough, as a guest in another's home. He was glad he had plans to be elsewhere for dinner, because it seemed that if Himura's woman could fail even in making a decent cup of tea for company then he did not ever want to see how terribly she could ruin something so far advanced as an entire meal. Again, Saitou's lips quirked up, much the same way it was a wolf bared just the faintest sight of its teeth when attempting to woo a flock of sheep with a mere look. Beneath that fall of red bangs, with unfathomable purple eyes, Himura Kenshin was watching Mibu's Wolf with a thoughtful, incalculable expression. 

"What, then?" he asked. Something important to note, of course, was that the Battousai could still see through all pretensions; his senses had not dulled to such a point as to lose all efficiency. Neither had the blade of his sword been dulled, of course, though the strength of the fingers that wielded it was no longer a reliable truth. 

"Perhaps I came to see again if you have not yet come to your senses. Things cannot return to normal because there was no state of normalcy to begin with. Not for you." Himura busied himself with not moving, except to bring the cup of tea to his lips, tilt it back just enough to drink. The muscles in his slim throat constricted just visibly as he swallowed. "I was in the area," Saitou further explained, into the quiet air, simply to enforce the dominance of his presence, "on business, and I thought I might see if you were still keeping fools around you in order to better learn their ways. It is not often one gets a chance to see the Battousai's home life."

"Aa. Sou." Himura's eyes had narrowed minimally during the time it took for Saitou to speak. Mibu's Wolf found himself amused at how easy it was to ruffle the Battousai's fur, as if, perhaps, some of Sagara Sanosuke had rubbed off onto him. Whether or not Himura Kenshin had intended for this to happen was another question entirely, one Saitou was not quite interested enough in to ponder more deeply. 

"It makes you uncomfortable when I call you that," Saitou pointed out straightforwardly, as Himura finished his tea. 

"Hai." 

"But one day you will remember ­ I can call you by no other name. I will not lie to appease your comfort in such a foolish charade." The Battousai smiled slightly, whether at Saitou's words or to himself, it was unclear. Still, the smaller man's motives were inscrutable as his eyes; yellow or purple, you could not break through that wall of glass he had built long ago to shield his every move from any opponent who thought they could read him properly.

"You say, Saitou-san, things cannot return to normal. Not even for you, de gozaru ka?" Their eyes met. There was a certain amount of guarded wariness to Saitou's expression, the tight lines of his cheekbones, the set tension in his jaw. Himura merely smiled. Well, there were more ways than one to hide what you were thinking, or feeling, relatively, Saitou noted with some amount of satisfaction. Perhaps Himura Kenshin had changed less than one might at first think. The name was different, but the basic principles were the same in the end. 

"I have not seen my wife in over a year now, and I have not seen Okita since his death." Saitou's voice was purely statistical; there was not even the usual analytical crispness to its tone, for the things he spoke of now were purely factual, no emotional attachment any longer to what was past. "For wolves and Hitokiri still living in such an era, there is no normal."

"Aa. Sou de gozaru yo." Himura looked down at his empty cup of tea for a moment, and smiled again. "Did you come to wonder at my state or at your own, Saitou-san?" Saitou matched the smile evenly, for though they might never cross swords again in combat they were still on opposite sides of the chessboard, and check or checkmate might come hand and hand with unexpected moves. 

"Both," Saitou replied squarely. "I do not lie to myself."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Saitou arched a thin, dark brow.

"Perhaps." Politely, Saitou bowed his head to that statement, wondering if that level of understanding still existed between them, or if Himura's fighting spirit had indeed rusted over these years, now so badly that it had become a point of no return. Future battles might tell ­ assuming the world still had skill to offer, for the best skill was born only ever of necessity, and such 'peaceful' times did not produce warriors as war, unrest, oppression could. Saitou rolled his shoulders, almost shrugging, though it was for the most part to release the tension in his muscles, not to convey anything at all. All chance for real discussion had been lost. Together, they might have been strategists once, and fighting for the same purpose had pitted them together on a path towards a power that had taken both their skills, their minds, and their determination to defeat. But though they had been cut from the same cloth once they had been sewn into separate creatures. It was, in its own, simple way, a shame.

"It seems to make you happy, at least: this web of careful lies." It was time to put on his gloves; such was an action that would herald the end of his visit here. He pulled them on neatly, with precise movements of his fingers and wrists. "But ­ tell me something, Battousai."

"Hai?" Himura looked up, head tilted to the side, as Saitou stood, movements half-brittle but ever graceful, Mibu's Wolf's internal rhythms dictating an elegance born of strength and refinement. Saitou's eyes narrowed and his smile turned into something unpleasantly near that of a gambler's when he at last pulled one of his trump cards, and not even his last one, at that. The Battousai could make what he would of what came next, though in its superfluity of hidden meanings there were plenty to haunt him for a long, long time to come. 

"Can you truly sleep at night?" 

~*~

_They moved with precision and procedure, as they might have practiced once when they were younger, the same moves over and over again until they could stop moving as easily as they could start. The grace was, Okita said once on a cloudless day, folding his hands before him while they waited for lunch, "not in the beginning of a technique, but at the very end of it." Saitou had taken that to mean any number of things, but he had learned, oddly enough, to stop as if he were one with the earth, as if no matter the lunge, no matter the passion behind the lunge, he could always take root in the ground beneath his feet at the snap of a finger or the gasp of a breath, if the need arose to do so._

They moved with precision and procedure, as only two men so accustomed to one another could, folding clothing on either side of the tatami as each article was removed. It did not do, of course, to undress one another, for the process was clumsy and spoke of the passion neither of them could bring themselves to display, each for their own silent reasons. In the morning, they would be glad of how neat they had been the night before, and there was something about the waiting, backs to one another, that set fire to their patience. Here, they would place their swords aside; when at last they did that, they would truly feel how naked they were, and they would give way to the rawness of desire in order to compensate, to show they were not truly impotent without their weapons.

The light rustle of fabric as they undressed was reminiscent enough of the familiar patterns to seem comfortable and customary. In such feelings was a peace of mind one could not find elsewhere, a home apart from the blade. 

Saitou smoothed along the folded edge of the topmost white garment, light enough so that the calluses on his palms would not catch the fabric. He heard, or felt, the other do the same, and then the shifting of the smaller body as it moved to rest back on its heels. Saitou did not smile with his lips but he never truly had, not since he was a very young boy, and it did not mean the flash in his eyes was to be ignored. Again, the body behind his own began to move and a small, warm hand, which should have been smooth but was just as callused as his own, rested against his shoulder. The other pressed to the small of his lower back, flesh defining the contours of flesh. 

When Okita bowed his head at last, brushed the long black hair away from Saitou's neck and kissed it, Saitou eased himself back, as Okita had done, on his heels, and let the younger man do as he so pleased. They were two very different people, Okita Souji and Saitou Hajime, but Okita liked to touch and Saitou took pleasure in each caress, and both had grown accustomed to the uneven pattern of give and take. Hair fell over Saitou's upper back, his own hair and Okita's, which was something he would tangle his fingers in soon enough, hair he knew perhaps better than his own. It was a dangerous business, letting his back be kissed this way, by a man he knew so well, and both took pleasure also in the danger of it. Okita Souji had been a child prodigy and there was one rebellion in his life that could thrill him; this was it. With the same agile grace they used in wielding a sword, Okita's hands kneaded the muscle or simply touched the skin of Saitou's back, while he kissed the same places as ever on Saitou's neck. Saitou positioned his hands on the fronts of his own thighs and waited, this period of thoughtfulness and recumbence to end nearly as soon as it had begun. The both of them were determined or stubborn enough, again in their own separate ways, to enjoy it while it lasted. Saitou let his head fall to one side, not a challenging angle but a restful one, and Okita buried his lips at that junction of taught muscle. He did not bite, just breathed against the skin, a prickling heat that made banked embers spark to fire, and Okita's hands tightened, tightened, against Saitou's flesh. 

Saitou flipped them, then, a wild, sudden motion that spoke of his speed in battle, and was above the smaller man on the tatami before any sound was made to warn of his rapid movement. There was only so much that Saitou Hajime could take in such a peaceful manner; there was also only so much that Okita Souji could give in that same way. It worked well, the sudden hunger in the very depths of Saitou's belly, to contrast the gentleness of just moments before. 

They kissed ­ both initiated the kiss, it did not matter if one leaned up or the other down ­ mouth searching mouth with desirous force. The backs of Okita's thighs fit well against the tops of Saitou's, this position the second stage of their sex or their love-making or whatever they had come to terms with calling it. Okita's back arched and he pressed himself upwards and Saitou's fingers ­ yes ­ tangled in that fall of thick hair, jerking his head up swiftly but with surprising delicacy, kissing him this time, and kissing him again. At that Okita's eyes fell shut, thick lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, and his breath caught into a gasp in the junction of their mouths. The trembling of his smaller body was like the trembling of a cat, just before it leaped a distance it thought perhaps was too wide, far too wide. Every muscle was pulled taut with the tension or the pleasure of the moment. 

"Ah," Okita gasped, the sound escaping from the lock between their lips. It could have drowned a man in intoxication, Saitou thought as slim legs wrapped around his waist, as heels dug into his lower back. Okita was a thousand surprises in the smallest, most bright-eyed of packages, delicate but fierce also, on the battlefield, in bed. 

So much of swordplay was a guidebook for this act that Saitou had long ago ceased to keep such careful track of what he employed where. Now: his hands moved down the sides of Okita's thighs even as he kissed him, kissed him, kissed him, left him breathless in the wake of each touch and each kiss. Now: he rocked against him so that their hips pressed together and the sounds Okita made burned between Saitou's ears and behind his ribs. Now: his hands were against Okita's hips and he lifted him, with a gentle urgency, and they were apart, parted. Okita moved, turned over, on his hands and knees with his head tucked against the latticework of his fingers on the tatami, and his hips lifted, waiting for it. Saitou pulled back and with precision undid the top of the small jar that rested by the side of the mat, waiting for this moment. Two long fingers swirled inside it, warmed the cooling substance and then pulled out, slick. They pressed against that ring of muscle just moments afterwards, for Saitou Hajime wasted no time when time need not be wasted. The position, too, of Saitou above the smaller man, the prostrate curve of Okita's back, drove him a little wild, perhaps at the beauty of it, or perhaps at the injustice of who leaned over whom. 

Saitou pressed his lips against the back of Okita's hip and moved one finger past the ring of protesting muscles, felt the tension against his mouth fade. Good. His hands were just as used to this by now as they were to pulling his sword from its sheath, both practiced, confident motions. He pulled his finger in and out and pressed it in again, listened to Okita's breaths turn ragged with the movements and felt his heart beat against his ribs against his chest. Good. A second finger joined the first and they stretched the muscle now, readied the smaller man for what they both knew would come. 

It was there, then, the smallest of admissions or pleas or even simple, perfect statements ­ "Saitou." ­ and that was the signal. Saitou's hand pulled free and wiped clean moments after and then Okita had turned and Saitou pulled the smaller figure onto his lap, pushed into him at the same time. Backs arched together, bodies pushing away from one another's with the thrust and the pleasure or pain that came with it. 

The first thrust. Neither initiated it because both initiated it, Okita pushing himself down and Saitou pushing himself up and once he was deep inside they were still, except for the rise and fall of their chests as they breathed. Here, in this place, Saitou took his longest looks at Okita's face, drank in both his features and his expressions. His brow furrowed as he grew accustomed again to the feeling, his eyes closed, as always. Slowly, Saitou kissed him, coaxed his mouth and also his eyes to open with the kiss. Okita settled his hands on Saitou's shoulders and sighed, relaxation flooding out into his limbs from the pit of his aching belly. It was always this way: a second period of rest, recuperation, recumbence, with Saitou's hands kneading the muscles of Okita's lower back until Okita was once more breathing normally. Always the occasional way Okita labored for breath kept Saitou wary, even here where almost all his defenses had already been dropped.

At last Okita lifted steady hands to brush the black hair out of Saitou's face and Saitou rocked within him, testing, questioning. Okita let out a low, hissing breath, kissing the corner of Saitou's mouth, challenging him with fast breaths and hungry lips. Naturally Saitou did not resist, hands tensing at Okita's hips so that the smaller man began to move, up and down on Saitou's lap. They moved together as they did not by day; their strength as members of the Shin Sen Gumi in separation, their strength as lovers in oneness. Hips bucked at a-rhythms, up to down and down to up, kisses punctuating thrusts. Saitou found Okita's prostate within moments and angled each thrust against it. Okita cried out once into Saitou's mouth, and the sound was swallowed greedily as their pace quickened into something maddening and wild.

As they neared the end, the climax, Saitou bit Okita's lip, a necessity for them both and their shared silence. Tension existed between them as always, a buildup of everything they fought to repress. Okita's gasps of pleasure were delicious and so young, thick and heavy and pleading. In this time Saitou made no verbal promises. All meaning was imparted flesh against flesh, flesh to flesh. When they orgasmed it was quiet and blinding, hidden from the world between their two very different bodies. They said no names and savored no conventional lovers' sweetness, the silence an important part of it. Saitou with his lips buried in Okita's bangs, Okita with his face hidden against Saitou's shoulder, the both of them tensing, releasing, relaxing at last. Always, it was afterwards that they touched, gentle and slow and personal. When Saitou lowered Okita to the tatami and stretched out beside him, when Okita tangled their limbs together, they watched each other and kissed each other and sometimes, they spoke. 

"I really feel," Okita whispered then, voice so light and young, sweet upon the ears, "I really feel like I'm dying." 


	4. 4

Okay, I finally got this part off the laptop's harddrive, which means, here you have it. Do enjoy, and review, and all the usual shtuff that I so desperately desire. The next chapter shall include Soujirou, I do believe, and the infamous Saitou Tokio.

**Holy Dark **

**4.**

The clouds had pushed themselves aside, letting the last of the fading sunlight through to the land below. The trees barely remembered their wetness of not more than an hour ago, though now that the sun was sinking below the jagged horizon line they soon would feel the chill of twilight. Although it would not be a dismal night, it would indeed be a lonely one. The difference between the two could be felt not in the weather but in the gut, or that familiar pinching between the ribs; it would not be seasonal, but internal. Out there, the grayness of the coming night would not affect some -- those lucky enough to love or to be loved would think the night blue, or black, speckled with the comforting flicker of the stars or the ethereal cloudiness of the moon. But if you were sleeping alone, it would be another story entirely: cold but sticky with the passing humidity, and lonely, very lonely. 

Sano shoved his hands into his pockets, leaned against the tree just outside the dojo, and waited. It had been a while now, he thought idly, a long while since Saitou had disappeared with Kenshin, inside. He had distracted himself for a bit exchanging barbed comments with Megumi but the problem with that course of action was that Megumi always won. Not one to take such indignity, because his ego simply couldn't handle how cruel that woman allowed herself to be, he'd abandoned her company and had turned to picking on Yahiko. Of course, Yahiko was a goddamn brat who kicked real hard and bit when he felt like it, and because everyone was a little more tense than usual about Saitou Hajime showing up Sano had tried Yahiko's patience to the kicking point real early on. So bothering Yahiko was out of the question, too. All in all he'd been able to waste a good hour and a half, getting away with a bruised ego and and a bruised ankle, and that was an impressively low tally, even on a good day. There was nothing left to do now but wait for the door to slide open, for Saitou to straighten his back and light a cigarette and head home -- or head wherever it was he was headed, more likely. Well, if Saitou thought he could get away without answering some questions first, Saitou had another think coming. 

Sano scuffed the ground with the heel of his foot and looked up at the unforgiving sky with a challenging frown. Just great, really: sending Saitou Hajime along with the storm clouds. Still, it didn't smell like it had smelled, the first time Saitou had come, for there was no steel in the air, no fire and blood brought on the wind like portents of an ominous time. Perhaps Mibu's Wolf had not come as a harbinger of unrest, of lives soon to be lost, of blood soon to be spilled. It seemed odd, then, that he would have come at all, for his scorn for all who lived in or frequented the Kamiya dojo would have been apparent even to a blind man. 

Sanosuke bowed his head, closed his eyes. There was this steady ache, now, in his shoulder, a dull throb that at least reminded him of his solidity in the afternoon; he was a big guy, a strong guy, and a little wet wind couldn't pick him up and blow him away, despite the unpleasantness of twilight's manifold mysteries. Maybe he was keeping his eyes fixed on his feet beneath him but that was all part of the way he stood, see, shoulder blades pressed up against the rough bark behind him.

So it was that he looked up just in time to see Saitou standing in front of him, smirking at his own stealth, a calculating look in his eyes. Impulsive as ever, Sano swore that if Saitou was going to make the first move, then Sano was going to get the first words in. No problem there.

So he say yes or what? Sano watched as Saitou lit a cigarette -- he had not, of course, smoked in the dojo, because above that thick level of scorn he was ever infuriatingly polite -- and took a long drag. Smoke, then, streamed out his nostrils as they flared with the extra-long exhalation. Naturally, Mibu's Wolf would wait as long as he could manage to before actually answering Sanosuke's question. Naturally.

I didn't ask him anything. Saitou took another drag of the cigarette. 

So there's somethin' goin' on? Of course. Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not next week but Saitou never came around unless he had a good reason and good reason' for Saitou had to be pretty damn good, at that. Saitou took another long drag of the cigarette so that light flickered in the dank dark, illuminating, for a moment, the sharp angles of the cop's face. Then, there was smoke, which banished the clarity, and Sano thought finally to look away.

I never said that. 

Ch'! You implied it. Just talking to Saitou made Sano's teeth grind together with aggravation. Either he didn't have the patience or Saitou didn't have the people skills or it was a combination of the two, but conversation between them was like putting a match to one of Katsu's home-made bombs and waiting for the fireworks to start.

Did I? Hm. Again, monosyllables and minimal interest. Sanosuke was just another piece of lint on Saitou's cop jacket, except Saitou would have taken pause to flick the lint off, and he didn't give that much attention to Sano, usually. 

Sure, go ahead, try and pull this shit on me. I'm used to all these I'm real dumb' acts, it ain't nothin' new. Problem was, Sano had spent a very long time with Himura Kenshin, the Rurouni, and just enough time with Himura Battousai, so that he knew the differences between smiles and actual intent, between words and their motives. Saitou Hajime was, in his own way, just the same at the very core. Kenshin and he were two different weapons: but forged from the same times. 

Ah. You speak of the Battousai. It was hardly a question, though from anyone else, it would have been -- Sano wondered how often it was that Saitou needed to ask a question of anyone. That was another thing that got on Sano's nerves. He was building up quite a list. 

Because Saitou had not truly asked a question, Sano's words were not an answer, just a statement of agreement. If I can see through his bullshit then I can see right through yours. The corners of Saitou's lips twitched, an expression which made the hairs prickle all along Sano's neck.

Ahou ga. That was the last straw, Sano decided, hating how young the man consistently made him feel, with no visible effort.

Stop callin' me that! Sure, there was no elegance or dignity in the exclamation, but Sano had realized right off the bat that he wasn't about to beat Saitou at the man's own games; Sano had to fight in his own way, or not at all. Of course, the latter wasn't even an option. 

If you can make me. Still infuriatingly unmoved, Saitou's eyes could be seen glinting in the now-darkness, as caring as colored glass. Sano clenched his fists at his sides, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.

Oh, I'll make ya-- Sano began, but Saitou flicked the cigarette butt to the ground and cut him off at the same moment, perhaps more bored with this extraneous conversation than anything else. 

Hn. Now is neither the time nor the place. It's a real wonder, Saitou went on smoothly, as an explanation for Sano because it seemed he did not trust him to work it all out on his own, that the Battousai has not yet starved to death during his stay here; his Kamiya girl cannot even make tea properly. Much though it grated Sano's nerves to agree with any insult Saitou made against one of his friends, the fact still remained: Jou-chan was a terrible cook, and they both of them knew it.

Tell me about it, Sano snorted, making a face of remembrance and disgust. No, he only came to mooch food off Jou-chan when he knew it was a day nice enough for her to drag the others off to the Akabeko. He may have been real damn hungry at times but it was adding Kaoru's food to an empty stomach that could get a guy killed, a death more painful than he'd ever imagined.

The Akabeko, as I remember I, is the nearest place to go for a decent meal. Naa, ahou? Hunger made itself known with a vengeance then, snarling inside Sano's still empty stomach at the mere mention of the restaurant. He watched as Saitou's gloved white hands lit another cigarette, painfully slowly to a guy who'd suddenly been reminded of just how hungry he was by the tempting vision of a grand meal passing before his very eyes. 

Sano said, careful, now. If he could play this right -- and that was a resounding and negotiable _if_ -- then maybe he wouldn't have to go to bed hungry that night. I haven't eaten since yesterday, ya know. Not too casual, of course, because he refused to beat around the bush too much. Somehow, he got the idea that that sort of game-playing would piss Saitou off. 

Perhaps that was the first real question Saitou had needed to ask during all this time - and this was just verifying the truth of a fact he had already assumed to be correct. 

Sano answered, frowning a little, glad his expressive face was hidden by the darkness. Did Saitou Hajime really know him that well?

Pity. You must be very hungry. It was then that Sano realized Saitou already knew what he was trying to get at, then that Sano realized also that Saitou had known before Sano had even opened his mouth. And oh, did that make him mad.

he said again. Well, if Saitou already knew what Sano wanted, then Sano wasn't going to beg any further. That was, at least he wasn't going to beg again, right away.

And that was his signal to start begging again, wasn't it? Not that he was going to be polite about it, but if Saitou wasn't even going to budge at this level, there was no point in trying to wear him down. Sano may have had his pride, but that got you nowhere when you were dying of hunger. Pride didn't fill an empty stomach. 

You are one sonovabitch, Sano snapped, patience already run down to the fraying point. 

But you would still beg scraps from me. What does that say about you? Saitou sounded smug. If it wouldn't have ruined his only chance at a meal ticket, Sano would have punched that amused smirk right off Mibu's Wolf's face. But as of th emoment, Sanosuke was too hungry to gamble this opportunity for a good meal, of all things at the Akabeko, on getting his ass kicked by Saitou Hajime once again.

It says I'm damn hungry.

Mm. You must be.

Says I'm damn hungry enough to suffer eatin' a whole meal with you. As if to accentuate his point Sano's stomach rumbled angrily, almost desperately, though it would have been a long shot to assume Saitou would care for a second about how pathetic Sano's stomach sounded. 

You make a convincing argument. Do you think you can behave yourself? Saitou's cool words cut like steel into the cool night.

That ain't, Sano began, having expected to hear words of an entirely different nature, and then went on far less eloquently, 

I said, can you behave yourself? This time, it was a real question. Sure, the nature of it was condescending and Saitou Hajime was still one sonovabitch in Sano's book, but it was a real question and that had to mean something. Before he answered, Sano paused to think; something rash and rude might blow the whole operation, though who was operating on whom, Sano wasn't sure anymore. 

Depends on the meal, he answered finally, a grin in his voice.

Saitou crushed his second cigarette out with the heel of his boot and, when he offered nothing more in the way of words, Sano found himself scrambling to save whatever it was he had started in the first place. Goddamn, he thought to himself, but dealing with Saitou was like being held off a cliff by someone you didn't trust farther than you could throw. And it just so happened that Saitou was one tall guy, not really suited for throwing.

Sano said quickly, yeah, for a meal at the Akabeko, I can behave myself just fine. 

Excellent. Perhaps you can explain to me whatever strange charm it is that the Battousai finds in his new life. There it was, Sano clenching his fists again, enraged at the thought that maybe, just maybe, Saitou had wanted him to come along after all, that Sano was the one being played all along. And to make _him_ beg, when Mibu's Wolf had wanted something -- information about Kenshin, it would seem -- all along? It made Sanosuke's already hot blood boil.

If ya think you're gettin' anythin' outta me, he started, all ready for action, but for the second time that night Saitou interrupted him. 

Tsk, tsk, ahou. Behave yourself starting now.

~*~

_You gonna take care of him? Harada Sanosuke had this habit of having a little more sake than he should have, but just enough so that you knew he knew what he was talking about. It was problematic for multiple reasons, as the man could say something and pretend on the one hand that he'd been drunk enough to gain impetus to say it, but if it hit home, he could say on the other hand that he hadn't had too much to drink really. It made Saitou's eyes narrow and it made his back straighten and it made all of him get really on edge, like they were about to fight. They had never fought, though; not yet, and probably not ever. Against all odds, they were the strangest of friends, honest with one another to the point of rude bluntness, but there was something liberating in that relationship. They said what they meant and meant what they said, reciprocal and ultimately satisfying. _

_I don't feel the need to justify my actions to you, Harada-san. Saitou's response was no more friendly and no more cutting, either, than it needed to be. Though Harada's words might have been rough, there was no challenge and no animosity behind them; Saitou knew him well enough to know that much by now, and so he responded in kind. Besides, it was a beautiful morning, and there was a certain languid laziness in Saitou's body that came only from post-coital relaxation. He'd slept well the night before. It showed in his posture, in his eyes, though he had tensed in anticipation of where this conversation was headed._

_Yeah, Jime, just like you don't ask me about what it is I fuck, huh? Convenient system you've got worked out for yourself. Harada grinned after speaking, an expression which signaled better humor than just his words might have, otherwise. His face was a network of honest emotions, open and surprisingly kind despite this sort of hard edge it had now, which meant sure, he may have been a good guy deep down but for the time being, he just meant business. It lacked a certain refinement to its features, was just a blunt display of raw feelings, but still, you never knew exactly what he was thinking. Harada might let you think you did, and it was certainly easier to deduce his thoughts than it would have been to take a crack at Saitou Hajime's, but honesty and being an open book were two entirely different things. Harada Sanosuke was honest, but he wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't someone to take lightly. _

_ was all Saitou replied, the sort of response he employed when he was being stubborn, refusing to answer anything outright or give too much of his position away._

_"Well, it ain't gonna work with me, I can tell you that much." Harada grinned, but then it was fractionally more of a challenge, the faint darkness of tone in his voice giving his intent away. But it seemed as if perhaps, he had intended it to, because of his one quirked eyebrow, his cocky, confident stance. Saitou leaned against the wall, wondering how much of his morning this would waste, or perhaps planning a strategy to cut the waste of time short. The desire to be obstinate was strong; monosyllables could be a man's greatest verbal weapon. Perhaps, if Harada grew bored and in his boredom grew hungry, then Saitou could avoid a lengthy conversation, one which would inevitably keep him from returning to the bedroom and the pleasure of a long, easy morning._

_"Oh?" here was another desire as well: to tell Harada Sanosuke to get his damn nose out of business that had nothing and would continue to have nothing to do with him. Saitou Hajime was a private man, had always been a private man, even in a time before necessity called for privacy. His personal life was up to his discretion, not Harada's; his to deal with, without the supposed 'help' of anyone else. The curt question that served as a pretend answer made Harada snort, moody and annoyed but also calm enough, as if he had expected such a response. Saitou smiled thinly and waited with ultimate patience for Harada to break the sudden silence, first. _

_"Yeah," Harada said finally, a growl in his voice, "I may be loud but I'm not stupid and I've seen the way he looks at you." For a moment, Saitou took pause, wondering at the obviousness between Okita and himself: the weakness that provided, the disadvantage in the weakness. To have such a weak spot as another human was a folly one could not afford indulging in. Not in such times. "Just don't fuck it up," harada added unexpectedly, his voice now softened, as if he could sense Saitou's thoughts. Saitou frowned, eyes keen and sharp and piercing as they fixed on Harada's face, searching out his motives. Still friends. Still companions. Still on the same side - whatever that meant, in the end. But suddenly something had changed. Saitou's grudging respect was now wary respect, and Harada's understanding had become quite apparent. This situation, Saitou decided, deserved a serious response, a thoughtfulness and a power of words he had not thought he needed to employ previously. _

_"I can assure you, Harada-san, I am well aware of my actions and their possible repercussions." Now, Saitou meant business. Harada shifted, body language showing that he understood, that maybe he'd misjudged the situation to begin with. If it was worth Saitou's attention, Saitou's full attention, then maybe it wasn't just a cold, calculated thing -- like a fighting stance, like most of Saitou's sword fights. _

_"Heh," Harada grinned, relaxing completely, looking satisfied, "thought so. 'Cause that's you all over, ain't it."_  



End file.
